


Journey's End

by thedevilchicken



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crusades, Getting Together, M/M, Middle Ages, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: William of Darly makes the long journey home from King Richard's Crusade. He doesn't go alone.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	Journey's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Since he returned from the Holy Land, nothing has been the same. 

He knew the way home once they reached the shore in England, or at least he knew the way in the broadest of strokes. He travelled north with what remained of his men, from market town to market town, following the merchants' paths, and pilgrims' paths, that snaked from Canterbury to London, Leicester, Lincoln, up to York, then past it. Directions came from taverns, farms, other travellers along the road, and William of Darly, aching in the saddle, wasn't even certain why he was going home. He'd lost the sight in one eye and two fingers from his left hand, more men than he could count and the bulk of his faith in the Lord Almighty. He almost wished he'd stayed behind in Acre. 

It was winter as they travelled, cold and wet sometimes with mud up to their ankles, and more often than not they spent nights shivering beneath their threadbare cloaks along the road, by a dimly burning fire. He'd sold his armour months before, to keep their little band in food; he still had his sword, though, chafing his hip as he rode in the day, and he held it tight to his chest by night. Sometimes he imagined its blade still drenched in blood. Sometimes he imagined himself drenched, too, and woke in a sweat with his cheek pressed to his sword's wrapped hilt. 

Sometimes he woke from his dreams to find Ismail's eyes on him. Before the bloody battlefields, William might have killed Ismail for the way he looked at him; on the road, though, heading home to Darly, he just closed his eyes and turned his head and told himself he didn't think the things he thought. Ismail had no family, no future, and so he had attached himself to William's younger brother's party back across the world in Acre; when Peter had died along their road home, Ismail had remained with them. William wished he hadn't, but in his guilty heart was pleased he had. 

They rode into Darly one January evening as snow blew in the air. There were lights in the windows of the manor house, past the church and through the village where their party shed most of its men. William's youngest brother met them at the door, him and Ismail, and William saw the way he eyed him, but he ushered him inside. They sat shivering at the fireside, shoulder against shoulder, until they had some warmth in them. And then, once they'd eaten, once William had told his mother and his one remaining brother about everything they'd lost while overseas, they went to bed. 

Ismail had no fortune and no family, no allegiance except to William's dead brother who he had, by all accounts, served well. William knew, of course, that he should send him to the servants' quarters, but he had a room made up for him. And, in the night, when he woke in his bed that he'd been missing for close on five years, he couldn't blame it on his dreaming; he woke at the sound of the door. 

Ismail turned back William's blanket and he took the sword he'd clasped tight to his chest. He stroked the place at William's cheek where the hilt had left its imprint, underneath his nearly blinded eye. Then he slipped into the bed beside him, settled close and closed his eyes. When William woke again, it was morning; when he woke, he clutched Ismail to his chest instead of his old sword.

It's been a year now since they came back to Darly. It's winter again, and snow falls outside, and William watches it from his window, turning all his family's lands white until the boundaries become unclear. When he hears footsteps coming close behind him, he knows them; Ismail wraps his arms around his waist and rests his chin against his shoulder. William smiles.

Sometimes he wakes in a sweat, like he's just risen from the battlefield. Sometimes he shouts out loud, with his heart in his throat, with the thought there at the forefront of his mind that he'd never wished to go to war. But he wakes to Ismail's eyes on him, to his hands, his mouth, and feels himself be calmed. 

He lost so much in the Holy Land. But he's gained so much, too.


End file.
